Puslapio vaizdai

He dies that touches any of this Fruit, 'Till I and my Affairs are answered.

Jaq. And you will not be answered with Reason, I muit die.

Duke Sen. What would you have?

Your Gentleness fhall force, more than your Force
Move us to Gentleness.

Orla. I almoft die for Food, and let me have it.

Duke Sen. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our Table
Orla. Speak you fo gently? Pardon me, I pray you,
I thought that all things had been Savage here,

And therefore put I on the Countenance

Of ftern commandment. But whate'er you are
That in this Defart inacceffible,

Under the fhade of melancholy Boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping Hours of Time;
If ever you have look'd on better Days;

If ever been where Bells have knoll'd to Church;
If ever fate at any good Man's Feaft;
If ever from your Eye-lids wip'd a Tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let Gentleness my ftrong enforcement be,
In the which hope I blufh and hide my Sword.
Duke Sen. True is it that we have seen better Days,
And have with holy Bell been knoll'd to Church,
And fate at good Mens Feafts, and wip'd our Eyes
Of drops, that facred Pity hath engendred:
And therefore fit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be miniftred.

Orla. Then but forbear your Food a little while,
Whiles, like a Doe, I go to find my Fawn,
And give it Food. There is an old poor Man,
Who after me hath many weary ftep
Limp'd in pure Love; 'till he be firft fuffic'd,
Opprefs'd with two weak Evils, Age and Hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Duke Sen. Go find him out,

And we will nothing wafte 'till you return.

Orla. I thank ye, and be blefs'd for your good Comfort.

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Duke Sen. Thou feeft we are not all alone unhappy:

This wide and univerfal Theatre

Presents more woful Pageants than the Scene

Wherein we play.

Jaq. All the World's a Stage,

And all the Men and Women meerly Players;
They have their Exits and their Entrances,
And one Man in his time plays many parts;
His Acts being feven Ages. At first the Infant,
Mewling and puking in the Nurfe's Arms:
Then, the whining School-boy with his Satchel,
And fhining Morning-face, creeping like Snail
Unwillingly to School. And then the Lover,
Sighing like Furnace, with a woful Ballad

Made to his Miftrefs's Eye-brow. Then a Soldier,
Full of ftrange Oaths, and bearded like the Pard,
Jealous in Honour, fudden and quick in Quarrel,
Seeking the bubble Reputation,

Even in the Canon's Mouth. And then the Juftice
In fair round Belly, with good Capon lin❜d,
With Eyes fevere, and Beard of formal cut,
Full of wife Saws, and modern Inftances,
And fo he plays his part. The fixth Age shifts
Into the lean and flipper'd Pantaloon,
With Spectacles on Nofe, and Pouch on fide;
His youthful Hofe well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk Shank, and his big manly Voice
Turning again toward childish trebble Pipes,
And whiftles in his found. Laft Scene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful History,
Is fecond Childifhnefs, and meer Oblivion,
Sans Teeth, fans Eyes, fans Tafte, fans every thing.
Enter Orlando with Adam.

Duke Sen. Welcome: Set down your venerable Burthen, and let him feed.

Orla. I thank you moft for him.

Adam. So had you need,

I scarce can speak to thank you for my felf.

Duke Sen. Welcome, fall too: I will not trouble you, As yet to question you about your Fortunes.

Give us fome Mufick, and good Coufin, fing.





Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind,

Thou art not fo unkind, as Man's Ingratitude ;
Thy Tooth is not fo keen, because thou art not feen,
Altho' thy Breath be rude.

Heigh ho, fing heigh ho, unto the green Holly;
Moft Friendship is feigning; most Loving meer Folly:
Then heigh bo, the Holly,
This Life is most Folly,

Frieze, Frieze, thou bitter Sky, that doft not bite so nigh
As Benefits forgot :

Tho' thou the Waters warp, thy Sting is not fo fharp,
As Friend remembred not,

Heigh ho, fing, &c.

Duke Sen. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's Son, As you have whifper'd faithfully you were, And as mine Eye doth his Effigies witness, Moft truly limn'd, and living in your Face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke

That lov'd your Father: The refidue of your Fortune, Go to my Cave and tell me.

Good old Man,

Thou art right Welcome, as thy Master is;

Support him by the Arm; give me your Hand,
And let me all your Fortunes understand.




SCENE the Palace.

Enter Duke, Lords, and Oliver.

Duke. N But were I not the better part made Mercy,

TOT fee him fince? Sir, Sir, that cannot be:

I should not feek an abfent Argument

Of my Revenge, thou prefent: But look to it,
Find out thy Brother wherefoe'er he is,

Seek him with Candle; bring him dead or living,
Within this Twelve-month, or turn thou no more
To feek a Living in our Territory.


Thy Lands and all things that thou doft call thine,
Worth feizure, do we feize into our hands,

'Till thou canft quit thee by thy Brother's Mouth,
Of what we think against thee,

Oli. Oh that your Highnefs knew my Heart in this: I never lov'd my Brother in my Life.

Duke. More Villain thou. Well, pufh him out of Doors, And let my Officers of fuch a nature

Make an Extent upon his House and Lands:

Do this expediently, and turn him going.

SCENE II. The Foreft.

Enter Orlando.


Orla. Hang there my Verse, in witness of my Love,
And thou thrice Crowned Queen of Night furvey,
With thy chaft Eye, from thy pale Sphere above,
Thy Huntress name, that my full Life doth fway.
O Rofalind, these Trees fhall be my Books,
And in their Barks my Thoughts I'll Character,
That every Eye, which in this Foreft looks,
Shall fee thy Virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every Tree,
The fair, the chaft, and unexpreffive the.

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Enter Coren and Clown.


Cor. And how like you this Shepherd's Life, Mr. Touchstone? Clown. Truly, Shepherd, in refpect of it felf, it is a good Life; but in refpect that it is a Shepherd's Life, it is naught. In respect that it is folitary, I like it very well; but in refpect that it is private, it is a very vile Life. Now in respec it is in the Fields, it pleafeth me well; but in refpect it is not in the Court, it is tedious. As it is a spare Life, look you, it fits my Humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my Stomach. Has't any Phi lofophy in thee, Shepherd?

Cor. No more, but that I know the more one fickens, the worse at ease he is: And that he that wants Mony, Means, and Content, is without three good Friends. That the

Property of Rain is to wet, and Fire to burn: That good Pafture makes fat Sheep; and that a great caufe of the Night, is the lack of the Sun: That he that hath learned no Wit

by Nature, nor Art, may complain of good Breeding, or comes of a very dull Kindred.

Clown. Such a one is a natural Philofopher. Was't ever in Court, Shepherd?

Cor. No truly.

Clown. Then thou art Damn'd.
Cor. Nay, I hope

Clown. Truly thou art Damn'd, like an ill-roafted Egg, all

on one fide.

Cor. For not being at Court? Your reason.

Clown. Why, if thou never waft at Court, thou never faw'ft good Manners; if thou never faw'ft good Manners, then thy Manners must be wicked; and Wickedness is Sin, and Sin is Damnation: Thou art in a parlous State, Shepherd.

Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: Thofe that have good Manners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Country, as the Behaviour of the Country is most mockable at the Court. You told me, you Salute not at the Court, but you Kiss your Hands; that Courtefie would be uncleanly, if Courtiers were Shepherds.

Clown. Inftance, briefly; come, instance.

Cor. Why, we are ftill handling our Ewes, and their Fels, you know, are greafie.

Clown. Why, do not your Courtiers Hands fweat? And is not the Grease of Mutton as wholfome as the Sweat of a Man? Shallow, fhallow, a better Inftance, I fay: Come. Cor. Befides, our Hands are hard.

Clown. Your Lips will feel them the fooner. Shallow again:. A more founder Inftance, come.

Cor. And they are often tarr'd over with the furgery of our Sheep; and would you have us kifs Tar? The Courtiers Hands are perfumed with Civet.

Clown. Moft fhallow, Man: Thou Worms-meat, in refpect of a good piece of Flesh indeed; learn of the Wife and Perpend; Civet is of a bafer birth than Tar; the very uncleanly Flux of a Cat. Mend the Inftance, Shepherd.

Cor. You have too Courtly a Wit for me; I'll reft. Clown. Wilt thou reft Damn'd? God help thee, fhallow Man; God make incifion in thee, thou art raw.


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